


Extinction

by StrangeMischief



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2020-10-26 10:23:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20740676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrangeMischief/pseuds/StrangeMischief
Summary: It was science. Psychology. Pavlovian paradigms at their oldest and finest. There was nothing dark and twisted about what he was doing. He shouldn’t feel guilty for it. He shouldn’t feel like it was something to hide.And, yet, he did.





	Extinction

**Author's Note:**

> As always, enjoy :3

_ Extinction _

Tony Stark hated. He hated so much and so many.

He hated his father for crushing his childhood with no more than a few disparaging statements and scornful sneers. He hated his mother for not stopping it, for leaving him alone in the world. He hated Rogers for somehow managing to be good enough, for somehow winning over a man so bent on perfection he couldn’t even love his own son despite his imperfections. He hated Fury for dragging him into a world of Russian spies, Norse gods, super soldiers, and aliens and _leaving _him there to fend for himself tooth and nail.

But, above all, Tony Stark hated himself.

He hated himself for cringing at the sight of pooled water. He hated himself for waking in a cold sweat, fearful that alien invaders were storming his home. He hated himself for being weak enough to allow fear to rule his life; for permitting terrorists and aliens to leave a permanent mark on his psyche when he was a _Stark _man made of_ iron._

Tony hated and _hated _so much that the only thing that rivaled his searing animosity for most and many things was heart-pounding, blood-freezing, all-consuming _fear_.

\---

Exposure to a source of fear, in a context void of fear, would reduce or eliminate the stress exhibited when presented with the source.

It was science. Psychology. Pavlovian paradigms at their oldest and finest. There was nothing dark and twisted about what he was doing. He shouldn’t feel guilty for it. He shouldn’t feel like it was something to hide.

And, yet, he did.

Perhaps it was the niggling part of Tony that knew that Pepper would cry hysterically before ranting her disapproval if she knew. Maybe it was the foreboding feeling that tugged at his gut, telling him that Rhodey would probably lose his mind and question Tony’s sanity if he ever found out. It might even have been the silent, but evident, sense of discontentment from JARVIS as Tony squirreled away studies and research papers related to exposure therapy in patients with generalized anxiety or PTSD.

But what else was he to do? Pay someone who was sure to blab to the press about his weaknesses? Flit from doctor to doctor just to be told to do exactly what he was already doing himself?

There were other options than exposure, of course. JARVIS had made sure Tony knew that well enough. The AI had talked Tony’s ear off while the man plowed through study after study, searching for the most effective methods of exposure.

“There is medication, sir. If you are wary of that, might I suggest speaking with someone? I know you are intent on using your own method, but perhaps you could use it in conjunction with speaking to a professional? My Internet queries seem to yield a general consensus that it is more beneficial to combine a number of methods of treatment rather than-”

“I don’t need to know what some stuffy professor somewhere wrote in a textbook, JARVIS,” Tony had snapped. He waved a hand through the French research report he had been skimming in favor of pulling up a transcript from a conference in Boston not too long ago. “I need what will fix _me._”

“_Fix_, sir? Do you feel you require fixing?”

_Stark men are made of iron, Tony. Remember that above all else._

Tony ignored his AI., unwilling to elaborate any further on the topic at the moment. “What I’m doing isn’t wrong,” he reassured himself quietly. “It’s necessary. It’s science.”

And science seemed to be all that was left. Science was what he could depend on.

Science wouldn’t let him down.

\---

Tony kicked his pile of clothes to the side and turned to face the smooth surface of bathwater. His own face, pale and gaunt from nights of restless, nonexistent sleep, stared back with bleak, haunted eyes. He’d let it go too far, Tony realized. He should have started this sooner before the physical toll became so evident. No wonder Pepper had been so worried; he looked like Hell warmed over.

Tony placed a hand on the wall to steady himself and toed at the warm bathwater. As he stepped into the tub, Tony clenched his eyes shut and rapidly whispered his three-step plan, “Get in. Count to ten. Get out,” in the hopes it would bring him some semblance of peace.

It did not.

One would think the half-filled tub was a portal opening over the open sea from the way Tony struggled and whined while sliding down to sit in the bath. It was torturous. It was horrifying. It was hell. His skin crawled as water slowly climbed up his legs, then thighs, and was closing in on his abdomen and his chest tightened painfully as the autonomous action of breathing suddenly became a conscious chore.

It seemed a ridiculous thing to subject himself to, and the temptation to leap from the bath and run for his bed was strong. But he had to do this. He had to fight it off. He had to fix it.

_Stark men are made of iron, Anthony. _

He had to fix himself.

“Get in,” Tony whispered raggedly, struggling to continue lowering his trembling body into the water without losing his grip and falling hard on his ass. “C-c-count-to ten,” he gasped. He was fully seated now, and the waterline had risen high enough to just barely brush under the arc reactor.

_One. _Tony dug his fingernails into the grout of the tile walls so forcefully the soft padding of his finger beds split. _Two. _Blood. There was blood. Blood was dripping off the walls. Blood was dripping into the water. _Three. _The cold, hard, unforgiving walls. _Four. _Tony wheezed sharply, his chest constricting further as bleak images of freezing caves and barrels of hazy scarlet water filtered through his mind against his will. His lungs burned, and he gagged, phantom water clogging his airway. It was too much. He couldn’t take it. He couldn’t do it.

Tony jerkily threw his body from the tub, uncaring of the pain the blossomed across his side when he slammed hard on the unforgiving tile floor. He’d have an ugly bruise, but Tony was too relieved to be in the open air without the crushing weight of water against him to care.

“JARVIS?” Tony rasped, cracking open his eyes slightly to peer at the ceiling. “Make a note for me. Water trial one, four seconds.”

“Yes, sir.”

\---

“Pull up the newsreel, buddy,” Tony requested with an air of defeat. The first two film trials had been disastrous and had left him teetering on the edge of a complete mental breakdown for the remainder of the day. _It’s necessary, _he told himself. _The ends justify the means. It must be done. _

JARVIS’ confirmed the command, and the largest screen in the lab glowed to life, already queued to resume from where Tony had been forced to quit previously._ Turn it on_, he reminded himself._ Count to ten. Turn it off._

“Pick up from where we left off last time, JARVIS.”

“Sir,” JARVIS began, sounding oddly subdued for an entity without true emotions. “Might I again express my misgivings about this endeavor of yours? The process appears to be doing more harm than good, and I must say that-”

“Duly noted,” Tony interrupted sharply. “I appreciate your concern. Play the reel.”

“Of course, sir.”

The clip, footage from one of the national news stations that had live streamed the Chitauri invasion, began to play, instantly filling the lab with the sounds of blasters firing and civilians screaming. _One. _

The camera zeroed in on the swirling vortex that had opened high above New York City, and Tony failed to suppress the shudder that ran up his spine. He could almost feel the bone-chilling touch of space digging into his flesh and the weight of the nuke pressing into his spine. _Two_. Thor flew past the frame, a swarm of Chitauri not too far behind his maroon cape. _Three._ Tony’s vision was already tunneling, his skin already covered in a sheen of sweat. _Four._ “And if you look closely now, Eileen,” the panting field reporter huffed, “you’ll be able to see what looks like Iron Man carrying some kind of rocke-” _Five._

“Turn it off!” Tony shouted, pulling harshly on the collar of his shirt as he struggled to draw in air. It was too much. Too real. Too familiar. “Film trial three, five seconds.”

“Noted, sir.”

Tony sagged forward and rested his sweaty forehead against the cool metal of his work station. “I’ll keep trying, and, eventually, it’ll work” he mumbled more to himself than JARVIS. “It just takes time is all. I just need more time.”

\---

“Water trial seven, no progress.”

_You’re a Stark man, Anthony._

\---

“Film trial fifteen, three seconds.”

_You should be made of **iron, **Anthony._

\---

Once his frenzied, labored breathing had evened out, Tony yanked on a pair of sweatpants and plunged his hand into the tub to remove the plug from the drain. “New record, JARVIS,” he gloated smugly. “Twenty-one, six seconds.” It was a bit childish to feel so victorious for proving himself to an AI of all things. But JARVIS’ misgivings about Tony’s… “project” had worn on his nerves, especially after weeks so far with little progress.

Tony grabbed a warm washcloth and carefully cleaned his raw nailbeds, sticky and stained scarlet with blood from raking his nails against the backsplash surrounding the bathtub. “One day I’ll make it, I know it,” he added, more for his own sake than JARVIS’. “I can make it through this. One day it’ll end.”

\---

“Film trial thirty-five, five seconds. Regression.”

_Why are you scared, Anthony?_

\---

“Water trial forty-four, no progress.”

_Stark men, **iron** men, don’t feel fear, Anthony. _

\---

JARVIS was Vision now, and Wanda drifted around the Compound with him at her heels while she ran her fingers over every surface within her short reach.

It could be innocent. It was natural to want to take in a new environment and Wanda, much like Tony himself, was a tactile person. But Tony couldn’t help but wonder _why _she had to touch _everything. _He couldn’t prevent his brain from imagining what sort of spell work she could be using while trailing her hands over the counter, the coffee table, the window pane. There was no end to the cold dread that he might be subjected to another terrifying vision should his hand brushed the pantry handle after her or if he grabbed the TV remote after she fiddled with it.

Above all, Tony couldn’t help but wonder how no one else seemed to think about it but him.

\---

Tony forced his clenched eyes open and stared blankly at the ceiling as his shallow breathing slowly returned to normal. “FRIDAY? Film trial fifty-six, four sec-”

“What are you doing down here, Tones?”

“Shit!” Tony gasped softly, waving hurriedly at the monitor. Thankfully, FRIDAY took the hint and shut off the monitor before Rhodey managed to turn the corner, a worried expression on his face.

Rhodes’ gaze flickered suspiciously towards the blank screen and Tony’s sweaty, flushed appearance through narrowed eyes. “Do I want to know what you were just doing down here?”

Tony let out a short, bitter laugh and shook his head, grateful for an easy out. “I think you’re better off not knowing, Rhodey Bear. What brings you down to my cave of exile? Legs need a tune up?”

Rhodey shook his head and patted the sides of his legs with a toothy grin. “Legs are working fine, thanks to you. I knew you’d get me back on my feet sooner or later. Hell, I bet if I broke my whole spine, you’d have me up and walking in a few weeks. You can fix anything you put your mind to.”

_Stark men are made of iron!_

“Not anything,” Tony disagreed with a soft smile.

Rhodey shot him a curious look. For an instant Tony was worried he’d given something away, and Rhodey would probe for more information, but the man just tipped his head before humming noncommittedly. “Not everything can be fixed, Tony. And if _you_ can’t fix it, maybe that means it was never broken to start with.”

\---

The water gently lapped at the scar where the arc reactor had once sat in Tony’s chest in what should have been a soothing motion. But rather than take comfort in the smooth caress of water on his skin, Tony bit harder on his bottom lip and dug his nails deep into the loofa meant to keep him from scratching at the walls.

_One. _His head was dry, but Tony couldn’t shake the sensation of his water running over his face, running into his nose and down his throat. _Two. _Spirals of steam drifted from the bathwater, and yet Tony was certain he was going to freeze to death. His skin was raised in gooseflesh, and he trembled violently in the tub as memories of shivering under piles of Afghan throws on a rickety cot and watching snowflakes float across the Siberian sky bombarded him. _Three._

“Sir?” FRIDAY’s Irish lilt echoed around the bathroom, a touch of concern in her voice.

Tony grit his teeth and clawed deeper into the pastel pink loofa. Why must the AI always interrupt? Why now? Why during _this_? “Not now, FRIDAY!” he managed to wheeze between ragged breaths. _Four._

“I’m sorry, sir, but Lifeguard Protocol has been activated. Karen has sent an alert regarding Mister Parker.”

_Five_. Tony’s brows scrunched. Lifeguard Protocol? When had he programmed that?

“Mister Parker is on a ferry, sir. It’s currently at risk of sinking in the next-”

FRIDAY’s voice faded out as the pieces fell into place. Sinking. Lifeguard Protocol. The realization of what was happening dawned on Tony so hard he nearly jerked from the force of it. _Six. _

“Oh my god!” Tony shouted, hurling himself over the edge of the tub and crashing onto the bathmat below. Peter was on a ferry. A sinking ferry. Peter was going sink. Peter was going to go into the water.

“Get me a suit,” Tony demanded, hauling his shaking body up and in the direction of where he’d tossed his clothes. “Where is he? I need to go. I can’t let him go into the water.”

“Sir, I don’t think you should-”

“_Where is he?_”

\---

“What the _hell_ were you thinking!?” Tony snapped through gritted teeth. He and Peter were standing on a rooftop, high above ground and far from any source of water, and yet he could still feel the spray on his face. The rumble of rushing water, swallowing the sinking ferry, still roared in his ears. The paralyzing fear that he was going to be pulled under, that Peter would be pulled under, still had a hold over his chest, making each breath feel painfully forced.

“You could have _died_!” Tony’s voice was tight and had a harder edge than he intended. Peter flinched, his innocent brown eyes losing a bit of their sparkle, but Tony couldn’t manage to feel guilty amongst the sea of anxiety and panic that continued to swirl within him. His mind was a frantic, incoherent jumble of: _Peter could have died_. _Peter could be gone. I could have lost him._

Peter seemed _confused_ of all things. As if he couldn’t exactly understand what had Tony so riled up. “I was just doing what you would have done yourself!” he rebuked. “You always save everyone, no matter what the cost! I can do that too! I just want to be like you!”

Tony’s mind stalled for a moment, trying to pinpoint _what_ part of his life Peter wanted to emulate. What was worth having? What was he trying to be? Constantly brimming with fear? Too traumatized to sit in a bathtub? Too broken to watch ten seconds of a news clip?

Peter clearly didn’t see how weak he really was underneath all the armor and reflective sunglasses. And he needn’t. Peter was more than Tony could ever be.

Peter was made of iron.

“I want you to be _better_,” Tony shot back.

Peter’s brow scrunched, and he shook his head at Tony’s words. “No one could ever do that, Mister Stark.”

And, for once, Tony Stark was speechless.

\---

“Film trial sixty-seven, eight seconds.”

_Iron isn’t made in ten seconds, Anthony._

\---

“Water trial eighty-three, seven seconds.”

_It takes **years**, Anthony. _

\---

“Stark?”

It was so dark. So cold. An endless expanse of stars that they were drifting, drifting, _drifting _through aimlessly. Had it always been this hard to breathe? Was the air already running out? It’d only been two days…right? It was hard to keep track of time here.

“Stark, come back.”

What else was out here? There was still so much they didn’t know about the universe around them. Were there more like Thanos? Were there things _worse _than Thanos?

“Stark!”

A cold hand struck his cheek, and Tony’s head snapped to the side. He gasped, hazy vision clearing as he drew in a sharp, frantic breath. The shock of the hit cleared his thoughts and snapped him back into reality as it was.

Nebula. Broken ship. Space. Alone. So, so very alone.

“Stop it!” Nebula demanded, shaking Tony lightly by the shoulders. “You’re working yourself up again. You panicking is not only annoying but is wasting air. Slow your breathing. Whatever you’re thinking about, _stop. _This is _not _a situation where you can sit and let yourself get swept up in fear, Stark!”

_Stark men are made of iron._

“You’re a real gem,” Tony croaked faintly, letting his head lull back against the wall. “_So _glad you’re here.”

“I can’t do this myself, Stark,” Nebula sighed. Her dark eyes almost, _almost, _looked pleading for a split second, but it could have been a trick of the light. “You _can’t _sit here and fret the whole way back to Earth.”

_Why are you scared? Stark men are made of iron._

“I’m not made of iron,” Tony whispered regretfully. “I can’t _not _be afraid.”

Nebula’s brow furrowed, and she stood from where she had been crouching next to Tony’s seated form. “I’m not asking you to be made of iron. I need you to be _strong_. It’s fine to grieve. It’s okay to be afraid. But don’t let those feelings consume you. Keep fighting for the life you want.”

Nebula drifted off to another part of the ship and Tony sunk further against the wall, mulling over her words.

_I’m not asking you to be made of iron. I need you to be strong._

Surely Nebula hadn’t meant what Tony thought she meant? That it was okay to worry as they drifted through space? There was nothing wrong with refusing to go further than knee deep in water? He shouldn’t be ashamed of feeling is chest tighten every time someone brought up the Battle of New York?

Memories that weren’t too old but seemed from decades past was tugged to the front of his memory. Rhodey. His stature still a bit unsteady, his leg braces a few models older than the one he currently wore.

_And if you can’t fix it, maybe that means it was never broken to start with._

Then Peter. He was slightly shorter, and his wet hair a bit longer. When he spoke, his voice sounded a tad more boyish than it had been days ago.

_I just want to be like you!_

They had recognized something from within him, Tony realized. Something he hadn’t even known he had. Rhodey had understood it. Peter wanted to imitate it. Nebula saw it.

At first, Tony was mystified as to what it was. What was this secret quality that everyone saw in him but himself? Surely it was nothing grand? He had only ever done what he had too. Continuing despite being terrified of what was to come. Facing uncertainty even though his hands quivered in fright and his gut twisted in dread. That wasn’t bravery. It certainly wasn’t being made of iron. It was nothing more than…

_Strength._

Tony stood unsteadily from the floor, bracing himself against the wall as his mind was flooded with hazy memories of his own deeds, each now tinged with new recognition. He hadn’t been a Stark man made of iron. Not once. Not ever. But he needn’t be. For he had been, and still was_, **strong**._


End file.
